


Keeper of My Pride

by willowhisperer



Category: RWBY
Genre: (not as bad as it sounds but good to be aware), Angst, Gen, Underage Drinking, Volume 7 (RWBY), Whitley-Centric, this is basically just whitley having a quiet breakdown after the events of "as above so below"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowhisperer/pseuds/willowhisperer
Summary: Whitley notices his father’s whiskey glass sitting to the right of the desk, empty save for a thin layer of melted ice at the bottom. He thinks he might break his jaw with how hard he’s gritting his teeth. He feels hollow, like a part of him has been violently ripped away.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 73





	Keeper of My Pride

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for rwby volume 7 episode 9 "as above, so below"! if you haven't seen it turn back now
> 
> i'm glad jacques is finally arrested, but i know this lonely boy's gotta have some complicated feelings about the situation. full disclaimer, i love the schnees with all my heart, so whitley's thoughts about his family absolutely do not reflect my own. also, be warned there's attempted underage drinking in this fic, so please be mindful. thanks for reading!

The sound of his polished shoes clicking on the mansion’s cold tile is all Whitley hears above the ringing in his head. He couldn’t handle the look in his mother’s eyes as he had met her gaze- something shining through like relief, and pity and… mourning? So he ran. He didn’t know where he was running to, but he knew the mansion’s dark halls like the back of his hand. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he had slowed to a walk some time ago. If he didn’t think about it, he could almost pretend this was just another day, and he was wandering the halls in order to snoop on the latest gossip from the butlers, or the latest wailing from his mother, or the latest shouting from his father.

He almost misses the sound of muffled shouting; this silence is deafening.

Whitley notices his footsteps have stopped, and suddenly, he’s standing at the door to his father’s study. The moonlight streaking through the windows reflects the blue of the mansion’s walls and makes everything look cold. He straightens his posture and keeps one hand behind his back, raising a fist and lightly rapping on the door. Once, twice, three times. His heartrate spikes a little through the haze, even though he knows there’s no reason for it. He knows this room is empty. 

Whitley counts the seconds go by; his feet glued in place. No response, just silence. He stands there a little longer as he waits for his heart to stop pounding, or for something to break the silence. It doesn’t stop, and Whitley can’t hear anything except for the sound of his own controlled breaths. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. So he wraps his hand around the doorknob and twists.

He isn’t sure what he expects to feel when he steps into his father’s empty office and shuts the door behind him. The only thing illuminating the room is the warm yellow light of the desk lamp, shimmering circles of glass hanging down the edges, like snowfall. Or maybe those circles were made of plastic, who knows. Before, Whitley wouldn’t dare run his hand through the strands to find out. But now, the thought tempts him, if only to hear what sound it would make. Anything to stop this insufferable silence.

He notices he still hasn’t moved from the entrance to the study. The light from the lamp casts long shadows on the bookshelves that line the walls, and the chairs that circle the floor, and the coffee table that sits square in the center. As he wills his feet to start walking forward and he makes his way around, Whitley glances at his father’s chessboard. The white pieces are completely surrounding what little of the black army is left on the board.

Whitley feels his stomach twist uncomfortably. His father had played chess with him once. Whitley didn’t do very well, and even though the shame stung like hot coals at the time, a part of him hoped his father would call him into the study to play again someday.

The room is barely lit, but Whitley finds his footing up the study’s one, two, three steps with ease as he wanders to his father’s desk. His heart is pounding but his mind feels calm and hazy. He lifts a hand and runs it through the strands of the desk lamp. He doesn’t know what material they’re made of, but he relishes in the soft _tings_ they make when they bump into each other. Whitley finds his gaze drawn to the picture of Jacques hung on the wall behind the desk. Young and proud. Slicked back hair, not a hint of white. Confident and showy. Nothing like the image of his father in handcuffs, panicked and ranting, his face pale and shimmering with sweat. Whitley feels his stomach lurch, and he quickly retracts his hand from the lamp, hearing the soft _tings_ die out as gravity settles the strands.

His hands are itching to be glued behind his back, but instead he traces his fingers across the edge of his father’s mahogany desk as he walks around it. It’s perfectly polished, not a blemish in sight. The chances of getting a papercut are little to none. He works his way around the desk and stands in front of his father’s chair, looking back out at the study. He has never viewed the room from this angle before.

His chest hurts.

He tears his gaze away and looks down at the imposing chair. Silence rings in Whitley’s ears as he stands there, waiting. One, two, three seconds. Slowly, a hand he didn’t realize he had balled up uncurls and reaches out towards an arm of it. His fingers are inches away from leather when he hesitates for what feels like an eternity. What is he even doing? This is stupid. He reaches out and runs his fingers across the leather of his father’s throne anyways, letting out the shaky breath he’d been holding.

He didn’t know what he expected. It just felt like leather.

Whitley turns around and places one hand on each of the arms of the chair. Slowly, he lowers himself into the leather cushion. As he sits in his father’s chair, looking out at his father’s view of the study, Whitley feels a wave of emotions wash over him, cutting through the daze, like dousing him with cold water. Or wine. Fear, confusion, frustration. Feelings that he doesn’t even know how to describe swirl around in his stomach and make him want to puke. He’s too short for it yet. His elbows rest awkwardly on the arms of the chair. He feels his throat close up. His eyes are starting to burn uncomfortably. At least his feet touch the ground.

Whitley plants his shoes firmly on the floor and scooches the chair up to his father’s desk. He fumbles a bit, and it takes a few tugs; it’s a lot heavier than it looks. He feels his bottom lip start to tremble, and he tries to imagine what Father would do. Whitley clasps his hands together, bringing them to rest near his chin and placing his elbows on the desk. How is he supposed to feel? Everyone else seems perfectly happy to watch his father be carted off to who-knows-where, and there’s a part of him that understands. But mostly, he just feels alone.

A picture frame sitting on the desk catches Whitley’s eye, and he feels his entire body tense up.

It’s him. A framed picture of him, and only him, situated just to the right on his father’s desk. Always within viewing distance. The burning feeling in his eyes gets stronger, and Whitley feels a chill run up his spine that makes him tremble for a few seconds. There must be a problem with the vents in here or something. He’ll need to bother Klei-

He’ll need to bother a butler about it, later.

Whitley flips the framed picture face down on the desk.

So that’s it then? Everything they’ve worked towards just, gone? What’s going to happen to the Schnee Dust Company now? He’s far too young to inherit it. And if the company gets passed to his mother, she’ll probably hand it over to anyone who entertains her little _pity party_. The cold fear and shock that has been pooling in his chest all evening slowly bubbles into icy, panicked resentment. His eyes widen and his fingers dig into the edge of the desk.

That was her plan all along, wasn’t it? Weiss didn’t just come back to rub her freedom in his face, she came back to get their father arrested so she could inherit the company.

Whitley grits his teeth, eyebrows knitting and stomach churning. The tears in his eyes gather but don’t fall. How did this even _happen?_ Just a few weeks ago, everything was normal. He had finally gotten the hang of being the only child in this house. Everything was _fine_ until that _man_ arrived- until _Weiss_ arrived.

Whitley’s foot _tap-tap-taps_ on the floor of the study. He runs a hand through his freshly washed hair, still tainted pink from wine stains. Hah, every servant he came across said it looked good as new, but he can tell it’s different. One even tried to show him picture comparisons to convince him, but he’s not stupid. He just _knows_ it’s different somehow. He just knows.

Who does she think she _is_ , barging in here and ruining _everything_ after running away- not just once, but twice? She always does this. She _never_ takes responsibility. She thinks she can do whatever she wants and then just skip the consequences. Disobey an order and then act like she deserves a reward. Poke the tiger and then have the audacity to act surprised when she gets scratched. That’s not how the world works. You think she’d _know_ that by now. He did everything right. _He did everything right._ So why-?

Whitley notices his father’s whiskey glass sitting to the right of the desk, empty save for a thin layer of melted ice at the bottom. He thinks he might break his jaw with how hard he’s gritting his teeth. He feels hollow, like a part of him has been violently ripped away.

Why does he feel the sharp sting of betrayal coursing through his body? This just confirms what he already knew, right? Why is he still shaking, even though his hair is starting to grow damp with sweat? It’s supposed to be cold in here.

Whitley abruptly stops his _tap-tap-tapping_ on the floor as he lifts his feet up and hugs his knees to his chest, scooching back in the chair to make room for his new position. Whitley absentmindedly wrings his hands as he curls further into himself, eyes darting around the room for something to look at. His father would kill him if he knew Whitley let the bottoms of his shoes touch the leather seat. What awful manners. But, well, that doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?

All these years of watching, waiting, biting his tongue, being the perfect son. What, that just counts for _nothing_ now?

His hands work their way to the handle of a desk drawer in an effort to find something to do, and Whitley aimlessly tugs it open. It’s filled with papers and files, important business that has just been uprooted, in an instant. In a night. Nothing is ever going to be the same now.

He was so close, he was so close to the payoff. Just a few more years and everything would have worked out, it would all have been _worth it-_

Whitley opens the bottom drawer of his father’s desk, and his train of thought halts as he spots a bottle of whiskey, sitting proudly. Not even hidden in the corner, just stored away for safekeeping. Figures, his father probably didn’t want to bother with the servants for this. Whitley can’t relate, he takes every chance he can get to pester them.

Whitley uncurls from his position on the chair and sets his feet on the floor again. Reaching down and gripping the neck of the bottle, he pulls it up and onto the desk in front of him with a _clink_. His head is swimming with adrenaline, and shock, and rage, and sorrow all at once and he doesn’t know what to _do_.

He hates them so much right now he could scream. Whitley doesn’t even know who “them” is anymore. Weiss? Winter? Mother? Father? Himself? What difference does it make.

With shaking hands, Whitley twists the cap off his father’s whiskey. He reaches for his father’s glass, and pulls it across his father's desk. It makes a tiny scratching noise as it glides across the mahogany, and the sound roars in his ears.

As carefully as he can, Whitley tips the bottle of whiskey over the glass. It comes out faster than he expected and splashes on the table. He probably should have stood up to do that. Or held the glass under the bottle. Whatever. He doesn’t even have any ice, so he’s already fucking it up. He doesn’t know what whiskey tastes like, but he’s seen his father drink enough to know that you always add ice.

His head is swimming and his eyes are burning as he moves to cup the glass in two hands. _No._ That’s childish. He switches positions and holds the glass up with one hand, like he’s seen his father do countless times.

Despite everything, Whitley wants to feel close to him.

Raising his father’s glass in the air, a cheers to nobody, Whitley closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and takes a big swig of whiskey.

That is, until the absolutely _vile_ flavor spreads in his mouth.

If his stomach hadn’t already been churning for the past few hours, he would be gagging right now. Whitley’s eyes widen and he instinctively _spits_ it out, whiskey spraying all over his father’s perfect desk.

If he notices the tears that have welled up in his eyes beginning to spill across his cheeks, well, that’s his father’s fault for buying something that tastes so godawful.

It’s a little harder to explain away when the tears don’t stop.


End file.
